


A Charming Young Man

by kvikindi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Mirabeau-Tonneau the tortoise, a potoo - Freeform, various animal representatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvikindi/pseuds/kvikindi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a charming young man, even when he would prefer not to be. (AKA: "the one in which Enjolras inadvertently charms animals.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Charming Young Man

Combeferre had devised a sort of box out of a desk-drawer, and furnished it with a plethora of damp green leaves. Presumably he had done this with the idea that the tortoise now ensconced there would be pleased; however, pleasure was not the primary emotion communicated by the tortoise. In fact, only charitably could one characterize its expression as mere  _dis_ pleasure; "murderous" might have been somewhat nearer to the mark.

Courfeyrac dangled a leaf near its nose. "What a good tortoise! What a pretty tortoise!" 

The tortoise ignored him.

"It is not a good tortoise; nor is it pretty," said Prouvaire, who had already contrived to be bitten by the tortoise. He cradled his hurt hand sulkily. "It can clearly be no thing of nature. I detect in it no sublimity." 

"It is a very ill-tempered creature," Combeferre observed. He frowned at the tortoise thoughtfully. "It appears to hold but one affection, and that for Enjolras."

"You are mistaken," Enjolras said from across the room. He had a law-book across his knee, and appeared disinterested in the tortoise. "The animal harbors no affections, either in the specific or as a species. To say otherwise is to diminish mankind."

At the sound of his voice, the tortoise perked up. It swiveled its head from side to side, beady eyes searching.

"Ah, look!" Courfeyrac cried, delighted. "It knows your voice!"

Combeferre, meanwhile, was pinching his nose. "That is a very incorrect way of using 'species.'"

"It does not know his voice," Prouvaire said. He looked sullen. "Perhaps it responds to a certain pitch. Perhaps if I am to say--" he raised his voice a notch, coaxing, "How sweet you are, my dark explorer of the depths--" He reached out a cautious hand to stroke the tortoise, then yelped in outrage.

The tortoise retreated, satisfied, having bitten him again.

* * *

 

"--only because he has quite fallen into ruin that he consented to sell it," came Prouvaire's voice. "Otherwise I would never have got it, for it is quite dear."

There came a clattering on the stairs of the Corinthe that did not bode well. In the upstairs room, reading, Enjolras winced. Combeferre buried his face in his hands.

"It's a creature, isn't it," said Courfeyrac. "It'll be one of his creatures."

As a gilt cage heaved itself into view, they could see that it was indeed one of Prouvaire's creatures. It was a brown bird, rather larger than what one would expect, with unattractive eyes that bulged out of its skull. It eyed them with a certain malevolence. 

Prouvaire's tousled head popped into view beside it. "Hello!" he said cheerfully. "Are you admiring my Nyctibius? It is magnificent, is it not?"

He clambered up beside the birdcage. Behind him, Joly and Bossuet were exhibiting the signs of poorly suppressed laughter.

"Most," Courfeyrac agreed, straight-faced. "Most magnificent."

The bird glared balefully with its big yellow eyes. It croaked at them: a low and disgruntled sound. Prouvaire beamed at it, as though it had sung them a song. 

"And hello to  _you_ ," he cooed at the bird.

The bird croaked evilly at him.

"Oh," Combeferre said, with more interest. " _Is_ it a Nyctibius? From the jungle? Where-- did Vieillot sell it to you?"

"Yes-- well,  _sell;_ we came to an agreement." Prouvaire poked a finger through the cage-bars and waggled it about. " _We came to an agreement_ ," he said again in a sing-song-y voice. "Yes, we did. Didn't we?"

Joly and Bossuet exchanged looks of disgust. 

"Three blocks of this," Bossuet said.

Joly said, "The bird clearly hates him."

"The bird hates everyone."

"The bird is enraged to an outrageous extent."

"It is, in fact, an  _enrag-ave_. Hmm. _-Avis?_ "

"It is quite... interesting," Combeferre said lamely.

The bird snapped at Prouvaire's finger, which made a narrow escape.

"I wonder," Prouvaire said. "Do you suppose if I let it out--"

" _No_ ," came the chorus.

"Birds belong in cages," Enjolras ruled flatly, without looking up from his book.

"Oh, but it is such a charming bird-- !"

Enjolras turned the page.

"You must surely regard his evident rights-- !"

Perhaps Enjolras would have gone on refusing to look, and thus risk regarding the bird's evident rights, had Prouvaire not set the cage down squarely on his book. Thus entrapped, he stared at the bedraggled creature. It was eyeing him with surprising tenderness, wet-eyed. It croaked beseechingly.

"You are an unattractive bird," Enjolras informed it. "Your vocalizations are unpleasant."

It hopped closer to him, humming and fluffing its feathers.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. "Prouvaire, remove your object."

"He is no object!" Prouvaire objected, indignant. "He is a most noble bird! I was thinking of calling him Leonidas."

But under the steady chill of Enjolras' stare, he subsided and removed the birdcage-- or rather, was prepared to remove the birdcage, when the bird, in a frenzy, attacked his fingers. Startled, Prouvaire stepped back.

The bird subsided. It shuffled closer to Enjolras, making fond little noises.

"It appears," Combeferre said, "to have a  _tendresse_."

Prouvaire, thus cruelly rejected, glared.

* * *

 

"Wherever can my snake have gone? Enjolras, have you seen it? It is perhaps four feet long; it is called Vercingetorix; it is a most pleasing animal, only perhaps a little hungry... what is it? Why are you looking at me in that fashion? Enjolras?"

* * *

 

"I hate you," Prouvaire said conversationally.

Enjolras removed his spectacles. There was ink on his nose, and he had the look of someone who, for the past half-hour, had been struggling to elucidate the value of suffrage. "Is that so?"

"I did not think I could hate anyone."

"Most people have this capacity, I have found."

"I strive to be better. Elevated. Morally pure, and remote as a mountaintop. Or a cloud."

"That does sound very difficult," Enjolras agreed. He dipped his pen in ink and wrote a cluster of words, before frowning in thought and very carefully scratching them out.

"I try to see the goodness in all people. At least in potential."

"An exercise that is rich in merit."

"But  _you_."

"Clearly I have offended you somehow." He did not seem over-concerned by this. In fact, he gave the impression of being half-distracted.

"You are," Prouvaire said, "the locus of my hatred. You are that which inspires me to sin, insofar as hate is a sin, as we know it is. I suspect you of evil powers. You may be Satan."

"That certainly seems a dramatic conclusion."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Have they? I feel my life is very dull." Enjolras paused, peering at his page. "Remind me what I have done again?"

"The animals,  _the animals;_ it is sinister and against nature!"

"I do not like animals. They are not amenable to reason."

Prouvaire made a noise of inhuman frustration. "They are amenable to  _you!_ You have dark powers over them!"

"I do not really think I do, you know."

Prouvaire placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Enjolras," he said, eyes wide and sincere, "I tell you very seriously that I hate and envy you. If I see you charm another animal, it is very likely that I will do you a violence. Either that, or I will burst into tears."

Enjolras made a face. "I would prefer the violence. Is there really no other option?"

Indeed, Prouvaire seemed already at the point of tears. He shook Enjolras' shoulder-- both of Enjolras' shoulders-- in the grip of some emotion he could barely express. "I hate you," he whispered. "I hate you so much."

Eyebrows lifted, Enjolras delicately extracted himself. He patted Prouvaire's arm in weak comfort. "Yes," he said soothingly. "I'm sure you do."

There was a small, sad thud as a bird flew into the window. Its feathers flailed against the glass, wings gone askew. It squawked miserably and made for a second try. 

Enjolras glanced at it. "They are always doing that," he said wonderingly. "Indeed, sometimes three or four at one go. Prouvaire? Prouvaire, why are you lying on the floor? You said you would not cry if you could do me a violence-- !"

 


End file.
